Importance
by CourftheCat
Summary: "I found you." "Where?" "In the Seine." Well that was the last thing the man expected. SEQUEL TO CAPABILITIES. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey guys! So this is the sequel to my other fic, Capabilities (if you haven't read that one then I recommend you read it first). Hope you enjoy!**

Warmth. This is the first thing the man's body detects, although sense of touch is gone as quickly as it came. Opening his eyes is tedious at first, even though the only light is that of the fire behind him, casting beautiful golden shapes on the wall, that the man would paint if only he had a canvas and paints. He hasn't opened his eyes in four days, not that he knows it. His restless unconsciousness has been full of an angel and mortals and water, always water, too much water. He would have gladly stayed in that dream state, with no worries of the outside world, but the outside world needs him. He remembers nothing of before the water, nothing except the faces of the angel and mortals, but it doesn't scare him like it probably should. If he needed to know what was before the water, he would know. So it can't have been particularly important.

Vanilla, The sweet smell fills the man's lungs like smoke from a wildfire, burning his throat beyond repair, not that he would want to repair it. It overwhelms him and he takes another breath, trying to absorb as much of the heavenly scent as he can, because as well as overpowering him, it brings him an abundance of peace. The man is content to stay in this room of paradise for the rest of his days. He probably would, too, but then the stranger came in.

The stranger carries with him the smell of peppermint and tobacco ash, which mingles with the vanilla to create a fragrance even more fantastic than the last, and the man finds himself craving a cigarette, licking his lips and flexing his fingers. He longs to feel the smoke intoxicate him, to taste the tobacco he hasn't had in so many years. He would kill for a cigarette right now, but he knows better than to go down that road again. _What road?_

The stranger is practically a mirror image of Professor Kirke from the Narnia books. _What's Narnia?_ His head is covered in a mass of curly white hair and a beard sits on his face, sticking out like the Crimson Chin – _who?! _– instead of falling down like gravity demands. A pair of small, round glasses sit on the bridge of his nose and he looks over them at the man. His eyes are full of kindness and his smile is warm. He carries an old-fashioned pipe that you'd more likely find in Lord of the Rings – _Lord of the what?_ – than in the hands of a 21st century man, even if he is about ninety. Tobacco stains line his nails and teeth, which are surprisingly all there when the stranger opens his mouth.

"Ah," he says when he sees the man studying him. "You're awake. I was beginning to think I'd rescued a dead man. You've been in that bed four days now. You must be hungry." The man shrugs. Food never really crossed his mind. "Oh, where are my manners?" the stranger scolds himself as he sits on the sofa across from the man. "My name is Julien. Julien Blanc. I found you."

"Where?"

"In the Seine." Well that was the last thing the man expected. He frowns, but Julien doesn't seem to notice and just carries on. "You were completely out cold when we got to you. I was out walking, you see, and I saw a body floating along, and I thought _what's a body doing in the Seine?_ and you were so close to the edge that a couple of younger lads managed to fish you out. Didn't reckon you'd live." The man nods, focusing on every piece of information and storing it in his brain for hope of remembering something, _anything_, about how the heck he had ended up in a river. "Forgive me for asking," Julien says suddenly," But what is your name, Monsieur?" the man's breath hitches as he realises that he _doesn't know_.

"I…" he gets no further.

"It's okay," Julien assures him, "You've been unconscious for four days after nearly drowning. I'd be concerned if you didn't have a little amnesia." He frowns as he realises he's neglected to tell the man of his physical injuries. "Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but your face has been quite damaged. I assume you hit some rocks at some point in the river. I can book you into the hospital if you like – we can see about getting it patched up a bit, but…"

"I understand," the man smiles. He doesn't understand. He doesn't understand why he would be in a river, why he can't remember something as simple as his own name, why the only things he can recall from any past life are a whole lot of water, some stupid faces, and two words. _He still_. What does that mean? "Can I see?" his voice is so small it's almost inaudible. Julien's face softens.

"Are you sure?" he tentatively reaches for a dusty hand mirror on the fireplace. "It's not particularly pleasant." The man nods.

"I _need_ to," he pleads, trying urgently to convey the despair he feels. "It might help to, you know, remember…" Julien nods, dusting off the mirror and handing it to the man.

The man's heart skips a beat when he looks into the mirror. The first thing he notices in the burst lip – it's not too bad, but as his mouth hangs slightly open he can see the gap where there should be a tooth. Blood covers the teeth either side. A deep purple bruise covers one cheekbone and multiple cuts decorate the other. The bridge of his nose is grazed and there is a large, deep gash on the right side of his forehead. Blood seeps into his hair, matting it into large clumps. He grimaces at the pure grotesqueness of his face. He doesn't recognise himself. Not that he would know what to recognise. A single tear falls from his eye, mingling with the cuts on his cheek. The saltiness makes the cuts sting and in a rush of sensation touch has returned.

He reaches up and trails his fingers lightly over the bruise on his cheekbone, wincing at his own touch. It worries him that such a gentle touch should have such an impact.

"I think your forehead's going to be the worst," Julien murmurs. "It might scar but I doubt it will cause any brain damage." The man hisses _amnesia_ under his breath.

The words haunt him that night. He can't get them out of his mind.

_He still loves me. He still_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Feuilly's POV**_

"And one more thing – look after Enjolras for me. Thanks. Bye." What's going on? What does he mean?

Grantaire hasn't contacted any of us in over a week, so what's this all of a sudden? Why are he and Enjolras suddenly not working? They were perfect for each other. We all knew it… What could have happened?

Enjolras' door is wide open when I get to the apartment with my spare key at the ready. I walk in slowly, cautiously.

"Enjolras?" the sound of sobbing comes from the bedroom. So Grantaire has left? Is it without a word to anyone except me? Did Enjolras just get home one day and find… nothing? "Enjolras?" I slowly open his bedroom door and see the body of my fearless leader shaking in time with his sobs. I sit on the bed and begin to stroke his hair. I've never been good at comforting people. I never had anyone to comfort. "He'll come back, Enjolras," I tell him, trying to reassure him, though I'm not really reassuring myself.

"No he won't," Enjolras murmurs. He looks at me. "What did he tell you?"

"He left me an answer phone message. He said he wasn't going to see me again, and that it didn't work out between the two of you, and he said sorry. A lot." Enjolras buries his head into his pillow. "Enjolras, what's going on? What happened?" Enjolras mutters something incoherent into his pillow. "What?"

"He's dead, Feuilly!" he snaps at me, looking into my eyes. "He killed himself, right in front of me. It was my fault…" I tentatively wrap my arms around him. I don't give people hugs, but maybe this once it's acceptable.

"It wasn't your fault, Enjolras," I murmur, stroking his arm in what I hope is a comforting manner. I keep my own tears held back – I need to be strong for Enjolras right now.

"Do you know what I said to him?" he whispers between his whimpers. "I told him he was in the way. I told him I was sick of him, and now he's gone and I just need him back, Feuilly." I just stare at the floor. There's nothing I can say or do to help, not unless I can raise the dead. I just hold him in my arms while he cries, and allow a few of my own tears to escape. He tightens his hold on me as I sniff. "Don't be strong for me, Feuilly," he murmurs. "He was your friend too." I nod.

"He always will be."


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey guys! Okay, I'm really sorry this took so long to write, but I've just started back at school and I've had tons of homework, then I was at the Burghley Horse Trials over last weekend, so I've had practically no time to write anything. But here it is, the next chapter! It's not particularly important yet, but it will be!**

The man's dreams are making no sense. They are full of men he's never seen before, letters, words that have no significance. He's not sure he _wants_ them to have significance. There's an argument, and he can only make out random words, _sick of you, get out_. Someone's yelling and they're yelling at _him_ and he doesn't understand and he's running and running and suddenly he's drowning and

And he reaches for the note pad on his desk, determined to draw everything before it's all gone from his mind, before it's just another useless dream. He draws the faces he's seen, faces that look so out of place, yet fit so perfectly.

The first man is sat next to him on the curb, looking at him with reason, a twenty euro note in his hand. He has red hair and green eyes, and scruffy clothes, but it's obvious he earns good wages from the slight smartness in both his attire and posture. The man draws him out, deciding it's easier to give them all names. He writes _Twenty_ at the bottom of the page.

The next is a young woman, with dark hair, hollow eyes and bruised skin. She stands in a defensive manner, and the man knows that those bruises are from her past. She's poor, the man can tell, with the layer of dirt over her skin and the ripped clothes she wears. _Scrounger_. But it's not her fault.

The next people come together. The man thinks at first father and daughter, but they share no qualities except the smiles. The daughter has blonde hair and blue eyes, and has a sort of glow to her, like she's made of happiness. _Angel_. The father figure is completely different. He has grey hair and dark, ominous eyes, and scars along his wrists, making the man wonder if he should be with Angel. But then, what has he done wrong? _Scar_.

A kid. No more than twelve or thirteen. He has dark hair that's pushed clumsily to one side, and dark eyes to match. His face is hollow from malnourishment as he sits across the table with the chocolate chip cookie in his hand. _Biscuit_.

This man is built like a bear, with battle scars up his arms and around his face to match. His expression, however, betrays him – he has his mouth set in a jolly grin and his eyes are full of good will. He is _Knuckles_.

_Baldie_ sounds like too much of a harsh name for the guy with the embarrassed face and half-pint of beer (the other half is all over the man), and so he is given a less offensive nickname. _Beer_.

The man is surprised to see Scrounger turn up again, this time with a blond, bespectacled man who seems to be recording his every move with the concentration of an owl over a mouse. It puts the man on edge that he can get this all from one still image in his clouded mind, and the man scrawls _Watch_ in the corner of the page.

The young woman posing for a painter is nothing short of beautiful, but the man can't understand why he doesn't find her attractive. If anything, he sees the _male_ painter as being quite cute, but he can't get his head around it. Why would he not be going after _Chick_?

The man with the small slits for eyes and the dimples in his cheeks as he laughs is the one thing the man needs to put him at ease. The stethoscope slung around the guy's neck tells the man he's a doctor. He seems to have an air of glee around him, making him look like the happiest man alive. _Giggles_.

The man questions the next image for a moment, contemplating the gender, before focusing on the facial features and realising that, despite the flowers and braided hair, this is a guy. He has a soft, almost poetic look about him, and he holds a note book close to his chest. The man decides that _Flower_ suits him quite nicely.

The next image is of a man in mid-dance, spinning round with a grin plastered on his face. He seems to be a model optimist from just this one image, and _Pirouette_ is his name.

The man's almost got them all. He can put down his pencil in just a couple of minutes. The man has freckles all over his face, making _Freckles_ an easy nickname. He's sat in the back of some room with headphones and… is that a _handkerchief_?

The last picture is the angel. Blond hair, blue eyes, perfect skin, and just completely perfect all round. But tension builds as the man continues the sketch – this angel has something to do with the argument in his dream. What, he doesn't know. But there is really something _not right_. But when the sketch is finished, and the man knows he's not done the angel any justice in his drawing, he only has one nickname for him – _Apollo_.

And there's something else. A letter. One stupid, little letter that is confusing the man amongst everything else.

R.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Courfeyrac's POV**_

I know there's something wrong when I hear the plate smash. Jehan _never_ drops plates. Ever.

"Jehan…?" half of me expects him to come in in tears, saying that the plate belonged to his grandmother, that it was at least a hundred years old; the other half of me hopes he's just going to call through and say it was just one of the cheap new ones from the corner shop, that the whole pack had cost about a euro, that we've got a whole unopened pack in the loft. What meets me is the silence. And Jehan in _never_ silent. Just two minutes ago, he was belting out Bon Jovi in his angelic voice, perfectly in time with the radio. And now there's nothing. And then I hear the news.

"…Body has not yet been recovered, and Monsieur Grantaire's partner has refused to give details of the death." _NO._

"Jehan!" I run into the kitchen and see him on the floor, leaning against the cupboard, knees tucked under his chin, surrounded by plate segments. "Oh, Jehan…" I slowly make my way through the mini minefield and bend down to him. He confirms what I know to be true.

"He's dead, Vivienne," he sniffs, wrapping his arms around my neck. I lift him and carry him to the sofa, no longer holding my own tears back. "It was all going so well and…" we lean into each other and cry out hearts out.

"What about Enjolras…?" I murmur, half to myself. Jehan looks up at me for a second, before burying his face into my chest. I wrap my arms around him tighter, wishing over and over that perhaps he's alive if no body has been found. "What happened? Who killed him?"

"He jumped into the…" Jehan chokes back a sob. "Into the Seine." All the air leaves my lungs before I have time to gasp. Grantaire's hinted at suicide before, but only ever jokingly. I never thought he'd actually do it. "He was going to propose, Vivienne. Enjolras was going to ask him to marry him. It was going to be perfect…"

"Shh…" I had no idea… Enj was stressed then, really stressed. No wonder he stressed, but… what could he have possibly said to make Grantaire want to _die_?


	5. Chapter 5

"Okay, just take a seat. Monsieur Javert will be with you shortly." The man reads the secretary's name tag – Azelma. He started reading a book of Julien's yesterday with a girl called Azelma in it.

"Thank you." The man sits down and begins to absentmindedly fiddle with the kids' toy on the table. Who takes their kids to their psychiatrist appointments, anyway? Or at least, a psychiatrist's like this – big, daunting, mostly black – the waiting room practically radiates death, if death can be radiated by anything. The man doesn't notice Monsieur Javert until he clears his throat. The man blushes slightly at how engrossed he was over the toy. Monsieur Javert is tall, with a bit of… stubble doesn't sound right for such a creepy guy, but that's what it is.

"Monsieur, excuse me…"

"Please, call me Achille." _Um, okay_. "You must be…"

"Um, actually I don't know my name."

"Oh. Okay. Well, come through then." The man holds the note pad to his chest like it would deflect a bullet.

"So you remember nothing?" The man opens the note pad.

"I remember faces," he says, flicking through until he finds the sketch of Twenty, where they start. Achille flicks through them quickly, before stopping at the page after Apollo. "Oh yeah. I… got angry. That's the only letter that came to mind and I kind-of thought that writing it over and over again would help." The man begins to fiddle with one of the massive post-it notes on the desk. He doesn't look at the page full of _R_s.

"What do you think it means?"

"I… I think it might be my name." Achille nods, writing something down in a note book.

"Why did you nickname the people?"

"It just seemed easier than referring to them as 'that one'."

"Are they named after any memories?"

"Looks. I only get still images in my dreams."

"So you remember absolutely nothing else about these people – no names, ages, nothing at all?"

"No."

"What's this?"

"What?"

"Is it… origami?" the man glances down at the post-it note.

"Oh, _that_? It's just a swan."

"Who taught you?" the man screws up his face in concentration. _Come on. You __**know**__this._

"Stéphane."


	6. Chapter 6

_**Combeferre's POV**_

_I need you_. Enjolras just texted me. Enjolras _never_ texts. Something's wrong. Very wrong.

I drive round to his apartment as quickly as I can, saying the text over and over in my head. _I need you. I need you_. Why did he not call? My first guess is Grantaire. Maybe the text was supposed to be for him? Or perhaps he's ill. He's been worrying so much about Grantaire, it wouldn't surprise me if he got himself sick. And it's common knowledge that he would always prefer me or Joly to his local GP.

When I ring the doorbell I don't expect him to answer it. But he does. And he looks terrible. He's shaking all over. Still in the same clothes as two days ago. His face is hollow from lack of both food and sleep. His face is red from tears, and his eyes are bloodshot. And he collapses into my arms.

"Frederic?" I brush his hair out of his face and he jerks awake.

"Raoul, NO!" I wrap my arms around him and set him down on the sofa. He begins to hyperventilate, whimpering and struggling against my grip. "No, Raoul, please, don't jump, _**NO**_!" I grimace at the agony in his voice. He is immediately subdued, wrapping his arms around me and sobbing into my chest like a child. I stroke his hair and murmur comforting words into his ear. "Ferre, he's gone, he's gone, it's my fault, Ferre I'm so sorry, I didn't mean it, I didn't mean any of it, I -"

"Shh…" I whisper, rocking him back and forth.

"I just want him back, Ferre."

"I know, Frederic, I know. We'll get him back, I promise."

"That's what Feuilly said."

"He will come back, Enjolras."

"He _won't_, Ferre!" he yells, pulling back from me. "He's dead! It's all my fault he jumped, and I want him back, Ferre, I need him." I feel a tear slip from my eye as the news hits home. Grantaire really isn't coming back this time.


	7. Chapter 7

"Stéphane?" Achille repeats. The man nods. "Stéphane who?"  
"I... I don't know."  
"Is he one of these?" Achille gestures to the note pad.  
"I'm not sure." The man sighs. "Sorry. For being so..."  
"No, it's not your fault." Achille smiles. "Go home. Get some rest. Maybe something else will come up in those dreams, hmm?" the man nods.

XXX

"What if I never remember?" the man asks Julien that night.  
"You will," Julien smiles. "Your memory will return in time." The man nods doubtfully.  
"I hope you're right, Julien."

The man doesn't sleep at all. He tosses and turns and thinks about his drawings. What if they're not even real? Just figments of his imagination that his brain came up with to cope with the loneliness? The worst part is that it's entirely possible. The man doesn't want to be alone for the rest of his life. Yes, he has Julien. He likes Julien and, hey, the guy saved his life, but it doesn't compare with knowing your history, your family, your friends, your _own name? _How can he live like this? If he doesn't find himself soon, he might not be living with this. How can a guy live without identity?

XXX 

"Are you sure you're ready for this?" Combeferre asks, concerned. "What if something goes wrong? Anything could happen!"

"Ferre, please." Combeferre sighs.

"Sorry. You just haven't been yourself since…"

"It's been six months, Ferre. I need to move on."

"By going straight out on the streets again?! Enjolras, you haven't even been to the meetings in half a year, and you really aren't well. You hardly sleep, you don't eat the things we don't shove down your throat, and you don't drink a thing except cuppa soups." If only Combeferre understood. Sleep brings the nightmares, or at least what Enjolras wishes were simple nightmares. Nothing tastes like Grantaire and Enjolras couldn't do homemade soup justice to save his life.

He gets up to go to bed and stumbles after the first couple of steps.

"Enjolras, this is ridiculous. You can barely walk!"

"I need to do this, Nicolas. I can't keep living in the past when I'm needed in the future." Combeferre understands Enjolras' point of view. He knows what Enjolras is trying to say. But his health is one of the most important aspects and he really needs to pull himself together before he even _considers_ going out into the streets again. But he is stubborn, and there's not much Combeferre can do about it. So the second best thing is to support his friend. It's all he can do.

Deep down, Enjolras agrees with Combeferre. He's in a state, and he really needs to get himself together before he does another rally. But he wants to move on, he wants to forget Grantaire, and he wants to be able to live his life. Is that really so much to ask for?


	8. Chapter 8

**Hey guys! I'm so sorry it's been such a long time don't kill me! Homework hates me at the moment, I've just started GCSEs so I've had hardly any time to myself, but now I'm back! **

The man, who has since decided on being called R, hasn't been to a market since before the accident. Or maybe he's never been to a market before. Not that it matters.

R hears someone talking about a rally, people protesting against the king. People who think they can barricade the king off the throne. R has heard a lot about the king from Julien over the past couple of days. He hates him, and seeing the state of the Parisian streets around the market, R doesn't blame him. Corpses line the streets, and where there isn't death there's poverty. Hands stretch out to the more fortunate passers-by, hands that may as well be just bones. R isn't sure if there's anything under their skins except bones. He doesn't even expect blood to come out if someone takes a knife to their throat. Their agonising moans fill the air, no matter how much the market attempts to drown them out. But one voice rises above the rest. R is enchanted instantly, following, hoping for the owner of the voice to be someone important.

The crowd is enormous. He doesn't know anyone, or at least he doesn't think so. It's not until he starts to pay attention to the individual people he's passing that he realises who these people are, how important they are.

R barely notices the short, ginger-haired guy in the worker's cap until he yells something in R's ear about freedom for the people. As R turns, his eyes widen and he stumbles backwards in surprise. Twenty doesn't notice. R refrains from saying something and carries on through the crowd.

As he glances around, he sees the young woman with tanned skin and long black hair. As she cheers at someone else's comment, he recognises her as Chick. Right near her are two more men, holding hands and looking on passionately, cheering with the crowd and occasionally adding their own comments on the king's tyranny. R breathes in sharply as he realises that they are Giggles and Beer. Where are all these people coming from?

R almost runs into Knuckles, narrowly avoiding the man's fist. It's not directed at him but the air, as he agrees with something some other guy said.

R isn't completely sure why he didn't see Freckles and Angel coming. Not that he knew their personalities, but they just _look right_. R holds back a smirk as Angel yells something in agreement and Freckles wraps an arm around her waist protectively as she attracts the attention of a policeman.

He sees Flower next, whooping in agreement with one of the speakers. He speaks with a sort of poetic grace, and R thinks for a moment how much he does look like your stereotypical poet.

The kid almost knocks him over.

"Sorry!" Biscuit yells back, not looking over his shoulder. He holds a handful of pamphlets and hands them out to random passers-by. R is beginning to wonder if he's been called by some unearthly power to meet these men. He can't find any other explanation.

Pirouette, true to his nickname, is dancing through the crowd, yelling at everything said, even yelling "YES MAN!" a couple of times as he hands out pamphlets. He gives one to R, briefly looking up at him before R turns away. Pirouette shakes his head and blinks back any threatening emotions. It's been a long time.

He sees Scrounger next. She looks wary, eyeing Biscuit as he scurries through the crowd, eyeing another man as he passes out pamphlets and answers questions.

The man is Watch. He keeps glancing up at the speaker, who R hasn't actually looked at yet.

Of course. There was only one man left. It had to be him. But even when R shouldn't be surprised, seeing Apollo yelling out about equality is the most beautiful, awe-inspiring thing R has ever seen. He wants to yell out to him, to catch his attention, but he just _can't_. Not here. Not now. He'll just have to wait. Just until the end of the speech. Not long.

As Apollo gets off the podium, R is quick to move. He runs after the retreating figure, bot wanting to yell. Because who would really respond to "Apollo"?

"APOLLO!" so it came to that. The man turns, eyes widening when he sees R. A single tear rolls down his marble cheek, and R steps forward. "Apollo…" Apollo steps back.

"Grantaire…"the name cracks on Apollo's lips. _Grantaire_. Sounds like _grande R_. Oh. _Oh_. And the memories come flooding back.

_Have you not met Enj yet?_

_Don't call me Freddie._

_Raoul Grant…_

_I'm quite sure I love you, Raoul._

_Pollo just sleep here._

_They killed you, Raoul. Right in front of me._

_Please don't die, Raoul._

_I'm sick of it, Grantaire, and I'm sick of __**you**_.

_He still loves me. He still_

"Enjolras…"

And he's on the floor.


	9. Chapter 9

Enjolras stares at the ring in front of him. All this time, and Grantaire has been alive… he'd had amnesia, the doctors said. But they could have walked past each other in the street and never noticed. It makes his head hurt.

What if Grantaire doesn't love him? What if he's bitter about their argument? He has every right to be, Enjolras knows that. But he doesn't know what he'll do if Grantaire does still hate him.

It's been a waiting game since Grantaire passed out. When he hadn't woken up Enjolras had called an ambulance and not left Grantaire's side since. Now he's staring down at Grantaire, willing him to wake up, because it breaks his heart to see his… ex? – on the hospital bed, unconscious. He can't take it.

And then Grantaire's eyes are fixed on his.

**There you have it guys! Part two is finished, although this is going to be a trilogy so look out for it! **** You guys are amazing for following this fic, I love you guys!**


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